Hello, Finch
by Rosa Clearwater
Summary: It was a sunny day - the type where you knew you were onto something and you were finally going to get a damn answer, if not an address. Aka, it's 01x22 and John's about to discover something about his employer. But, there is a slight descent into a form of deviation.


It was a sunny day - the type where you knew you were onto something and you were finally going to get a damn answer, if not an address.

The park John currently surveyed was scattered with clues of his current employer - that much was obvious once he picked up his own cup of Sencha Green tea. And, as he caught sight of a rather distinct, a rather _familiar,_ display adorning a delivery truck, he once again had a purpose. There was assuredly a trail to follow, and it was burning brighter now than ever before.

Apartment in sight, John observed the delivery-man deposit a stack of magazines on the front step.

 _Well, hello there._ He thought to himself in faint bemusement, anticipation guiding him up the steps and curiosity bringing his hand to the door.

After all, now seemed like a perfectly good time to _finally_ get properly acquainted with his boss.

"Can I help you?" The door opened to reveal a middle-aged man. He seemed kind, he seemed to wear his heart on the sleeve of his simple suit with blue eyes peering through spectacles in a rather friendly fashion.

And he was most definitely not Hendricks.

"Sorry to bother you." The badge came to his hand with ease, triggering confusion - if not wariness - in the other man.

But this was further proof that the man before him was not his boss: Hendricks's paranoia would never have allowed for such an unguarded display. "Detective Stills. Someone reported a disturbance at this address."

"Really, Detective?" An eyebrow lifted at this, as the man seemed to shift slightly. "I do believe I'm the only one here."

"Probably just some old lady who saw a shadow or a kid playing a joke. We just have to check everything out." He looked down at the magazines, as though noticing them for the first time. "Do you want help with these?" Harold hesitated a second, before nodding.

"That would most appreciated, Detective Stills."

And, so, they walked into the space - limped, in the case of the other man. In any case, John's now entering the home of someone related to Hendricks in some way and so he begins to interrogate the space and the man in a casual tone.

"Must be about fifty copies in here. You a collector?" A wry smile emerges, and draws John's attention away from his investigation.

"In a sense. They send me extras when it's one of mine."

"Do you draw the covers?" At this, the man laughed - a lighthearted, ringing sound that the vigilante couldn't help but commit to memory.

"Oh, no, no. While there is a certain art to what I do, my specialty is working with numbers. And, as a hobby, I occasionally come up with logic puzzles or equivalents for magazines."

"You create puzzles?"

"It is a bit old-fashioned, I must confess, seeing as how everything is becoming _computerized._ " The word seemed both distasteful and wistful as the man carried on, "But, it's fascinating. Interestingly enough, every time I think I'll never work again, a magazine or newspaper calls to request my services. So, I guess there's some higher power calling the shots on this- an A.I., perhaps." The last part was meant to be a joke, but John can only faintly chuckle and attempt not to stare.

See, he's just discovered a picture filled with such candor and love he can hardly look at it.

"Who's this?" He immediately recognizes both people in the photo: it's Hendricks and the man before him. And, John should be jumping for joy at this opportunity for answers, he should be feeling a mighty adrenaline course through his veins now that he finally has more than "As someone I knew would say, 'I'm a very private person.', John. Hadn't always been, but I've needed to be."

But he's honestly far more intrigued by the man standing in front of him, the man whose name he still doesn't know, but who has stolen his attention in such a nonchalant way.

"That- that would be Grace, my fiance."

"Looks like a nice girl."

"Yeah," It's the most casual word he's spoken, but it conveys far more than could be said. "She's an inordinately wonderful woman." A smile blossoms, and suddenly none of the mystery matters. Just watching this. "I never really thought that I would encounter _anyone_ who would get me. After all, spending your time alone, calculating and working with numbers, isn't exactly the most efficient way to find someone." A half-chuckle emerges at this, sinking into the unexpected nostalgia.

"But, Grace found me." Hands fidget as eyes focus on only one face. "It's funny, really. I had been working on constructing a puzzle in the park one day, and… there was this woman. Indulging in an ice cream cone in _January_." The room glows with comfort and John hangs on to every word as he continues. "And she smiled at me. She even asked me if I wanted one."

John can't handle the intimacy. Not out of respect for Grace - although he has connected with the woman to a certain extent these last few months, theirs had truly been a chance meeting. And, while she did offer him a job, it was more of a transaction than it was a transformation, a purpose, if you will. He did rather enjoy saving people, and it's true that this job took him away from the grim path he had been running towards.

But, something was still missing.

And, here, in this room, that something seemed to be lingering in the rays of the sun and the beam of kind blue eyes.

"Does she live here with you?" The sunlight fades, invisible walls come up, the beam diminishes, and the picture is politely - but firmly - taken away.

"No, she doesn't." It's not put away, the memory or the photo. Hands subconsciously clutch it as he continues to explain. "She used to. However," When blue eyes look up this time, they hold the shadows of pain and sorrow.

"I lost her two years ago. There had been an accident."

John really shouldn't be here. He doesn't want to witness this pain, this loss of happiness. And, even as the vigilante murmurs "I'm sorry.", he wants to do so much for this still grieving man.

...

When he steps out of the apartment, Grace is patiently waiting for him. And, as they walk back into their own shadows, he can't help but want to turn around and go back.

But he doesn't.

They just keep walking.

He should crack a remark or bring the conversation back to their job. Something to coax boundaries back, boundaries that he happily crossed and would - against his better judgment - happily cross again. He should probably at least apologize for intruding into what was undoubtedly private.

He doesn't do any of that.

They just keep walking.

They continue to walk in silence and a question eventually resurfaces for John. It never really left, just sort of stepped to the side for the time being. Luckily for him, Grace is willing to share the answer.

"Harold. His name is Harold."


End file.
